


Gloves

by captbuccaneer



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4842581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captbuccaneer/pseuds/captbuccaneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things are different when she returns to Briggs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloves

Things are different when she returns to Briggs.  

The halls are emptier, the atmosphere muted, because while there was a victory in Central, it doesn't feel like one with so many soldiers gone.  Soon the men they lost will be replaced with new recruits and transfers, and the halls will fill up again, and things will resume as they always have, but she knows it won't be the same.

_"Here, only the strong survive."_

She had said those words to Edward Elric once, and she had meant them.  But, she supposes, Central is not Briggs, and there, even the strongest can perish.  She knows this particularly to be true every morning she slips on her gloves and tamps down memories of a set of mismatched hands.

Miles is gone now, off in the East with the Ishvalan Scar.  He calls every so often, to update her on their progress, and though she'll never tell him, she's thankful at times to hear his voice, to know he's alive still. In moments of weakness, she wishes his solid presence were still at her side, if only because some soldiers and their loyalty can't be replaced.  It's an utter chore to train new men.

She goes to visit Neil sometimes, on slow days, and after exchanging quick pleasantries (as much as she can stomach), she sits at the corner desk and does some paperwork while he tinkers away with his automail. They never talk about him, never mention his name, but it's a small comfort nevertheless to know she isn't alone in her grief. When he unveils his newest model to her, tentatively mentioning its name, she turns on her heels and doesn't return for months.

Neil understands, and puts the model in a glass cabinet where no one will ever wear it.

The first man she kills after returning is a Drachman spy.  He's caught trying to scale the wall by the night patrol.  Tied up at her feet, he's haughty and silent, glaring up at her with a challenge in his eyes, and she feels no remorse when her sword punctures his heart.  It's hard to feel anything when there's nothing but ice left.

She cleans her sword with her gloves, dirtying them, but she doesn't care; she has more.

"My gloves, Buccaneer."

A hush falls over her men, and she realizes what she said a moment too late.  _Damn_.  She glares at them all, daring them to speak, but they're all silent; the newcomers, the ones she particularly despises, look at each other quizzically but keep their mouths shut all the same, as they should.

Falman pushes forward. "Here, sir," he says, awkwardly.  He fishes a new pair of white gloves from his own jacket and holds them out for her to take.

"What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?" she snaps, though she knows very well what it is.

"The Captain asked me to always keep a spare or two on hand for you, sir," Falman says.  "Before he - passed."

In the moment of silence that follows, Olivier Mira Armstrong wants to destroy the world.  She wants to find someone to punish, to make them hurt the way she does, to make her pain _go away_.  He died following her orders, she knows this, she knows that this is the way of war, the way of battle that's been passed down since the beginning of time, and it's irrational, it is, the way she reacts and she  _knows_  it's irrational and weak and unbecoming of her but sometimes she cannot help but be human.

He'd laugh at her if he were still here, and tell her to move on.

_"We don't see any point in clinging to those who've died."_

She steps forward, wrenches the gloves away from Falman, and stalks out of the room.  The others know better than to follow.

The afternoon finds her sitting at the top of the fort, looking over the mountains much as she did that one day they talked about black and white and blue. The sky hasn't been blue for a while, settling into the winter months with a dreary, glum gray.  Snow particles bite into her cheeks and numb her legs, but she welcomes it with a perverse sort of pleasure.  It's only fitting for the Ice Queen to like the cold.

They tell her he died with a smile on his face, that he made sure the gate was taken care of before passing on.  He died a good death, an enviable one, and she's fiercely proud he died with honor, a true soldier of Briggs.

 _But you weren't supposed to die_ , she thinks.

It's four years later when she finally returns to Central, at the invitation of the Fuhrer, for the dedication of the memorial for all who gave their lives on the Promised Day.  She sees Mustang and Hawkeye, the Elric brothers and the mechanic, Izumi and Sig, Miles and Scar, her family - were it a different day, there would be more smiles and laughter at such a reunion.  But the living are here to honor the dead, and no one can bring themselves to smile.

Miles accompanies her to the memorial, after the ceremony, and watches as she stands, pensive, eyes tracking onto every star of a fallen Briggs' soldier.  Each soldier received a star and an engraving of their name on a long marble wall.

She lingers at his star for a touch too long.

There's a cemetery beyond the memorial, an expanse of green grass dotted with white headstones.  She had fought to have his body brought back to Briggs, to be buried in the mountains that he so loved, but lost.  She hates it,  _loathes_  it, that he's laid to rest in a place like Central, where the air is polluted and the men weak.

"You were a fool to die, old friend," she murmurs, standing in front of his headstone.  "Central never did agree with you."

She does not cry, she never does, but this is as close as she will allow herself to come.  Reaching into her jacket, she pulls out a clean set of gloves and sets them atop his gravestone.

"For next time I need them...Buccaneer."

She carries her own gloves now.

**Author's Note:**

> This past week, I was hit by a massive wave of Buccaneer feels. Hope you enjoyed it! You can find me on Tumblr at captbuccaneer.


End file.
